Power Play

by Avon Gale

  “Of course not,” Max assured him, though he’d been worried about that exact thing not three seconds before. “But you’re not surprised? Not even a little?”

  “Maybe a little,” Scott admitted. “And Misha? That’s gotta be kind of awkward, because of the whole... y’know.”

  “It was an accident, Scott. And he’s a good guy. You’ll like him.”

  “I figure. Mom thought he was lovely. You know how she says that about people.”

  Max did, and it made him smile. “Yeah. And she did like him. I told her,” Max assured his brother and then amended, “Or you know how Mom is. She figured it out. But I’m gonna tell Dad, and you can tell Vanessa. Unless you want me to.”

  “Nah. I will. Because she totally thought you were lying when you said you were texting Misha. She thought it was a girl.” Scott snorted. “You really were smiling like a dope at your phone. So I’m guessing it’s serious?”

  “Yeah.” Max pulled at the label on his beer bottle. “I think it is. But I wouldn’t want you to hate him or anything because of the accident, even if it weren’t. I mean, it’s not like it didn’t ruin his career too. Did you know they suspended him for fifteen games? He has a Stanley Cup ring, and he’s never even worn it.” He never let Max see it either. Max was going to have to work on that one. He fully intended to get one of his own someday, for coaching, but there was no reason he couldn’t just wear Misha’s around the house. For an hour or two.

  Scott reached out and put a hand on Max’s shoulder. “I know, Max. What did you think I was going to do, forbid him from entering my house? If you love him, then I’m sure we will too.”

  Max groaned and hit his head on the back of the sofa. “This is like a Christmas special on television.” He laughed. “Oh, man. You know what I just realized? Me and Misha could totally dress up for Halloween as the Grinch and Max, the dog. It’d be awesome. Misha is tall and looks sad a lot, and I’m.... Well, me.”

  “He looks sad?”

  “Well. He’s Russian,” Max said, as if that explained it. “Turns out, Scott, they’re either Bond villains or really moody.”

  Scott just shook his head. “You gonna tell anyone else in the family?”

  “You think I should?”

  “I think it’ll be fine. Well. Maybe don’t tell Aunt Helen. Although she might surprise you and collect enough rations in the cave in case Misha joins us when the world ends.”

  “Don’t let Dad hear you encouraging her survivalist fantasies,” Max warned. Their father’s sister was convinced the government was going to end the world with the help of aliens or something, and was always stockpiling cans of food in case it happened sooner rather than later.

  “Speaking of Dad....” Scott raised his eyebrows. “You should tell him. You know he hates being the last to know things.”

  “I will. Hey, Scott?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks,” Max said gruffly, and he and his brother hugged briefly and faced each other with matching Ashford-red blushes on their face.

  “You’re my brother, Max. I love you even if you date Bond villains or the Grinch. And yes, by the way. I did teach Schyler that it’s okay to kiss your best friend, even if it’s a girl. You know why?”

  Max shook his head.

  “Because one day she asked me, ‘Daddy, how will I know when I have a person to live with and have a house and watch grown-up movies with, like you and Mommy?’ And I told her, ‘Honey, you’ll know when it’s right because they’ll be your best friend and you’ll like kissing them.’ And she said, ‘But what if I have a girl best friend like Mommy?’ And I said, ‘Schyler, if you end up with a girl like your mommy then you’ll be just as lucky as I am.’”

  Max smiled, charmed by the story and the simple, heartfelt way in which his brother delivered it. “Did you ever tell Vanessa that story?”

  “How do you think we’re ending up with number four on the way?” Scott asked, smiling a bit evilly.

  Max grinned. “You old dog.”

  “Right. Well. What can I say? My wife is hot as hell, and we have great kids, so why not have some more? So does this mean you and Jason Nichols were a thing back in college? Because I thought you were, and Mom said you guys were just teammates.”

  “We were,” Max protested, laughing. But then he thought about it. “I probably did have a crush on him,” he admitted. “But no way did I realize that until right now. It was... it wasn’t just Misha. I had ideas but I didn’t do anything about them until... ah. You know that trip to Mexico?”

  “You banged dudes on the trip that was supposed to be your honeymoon with the Snob?” Scott’s eyes widened. “Uh. Sorry. It’s just, Emma was.... Well, Vanessa always called her that and it kind of stuck.”

  “Good thing you knocked her up already, ’cause blaming her for that would not get you laid, I bet,” Max said. “And yeah. I banged dudes on the trip that was supposed to be my honeymoon. Kind of. I’m not giving you the details, but it was... eye-opening.”

  “Uh-huh.” Scott held out his fist. “Latent bisexuality, huh? That’s going to be a tough one for me to beat. You think I should tell Mom and Dad how me and Vanessa went to that Swingers club one time?”

  “Yeah. But leave out the part where it was an accident,” Max joked.

  Max knew there was no way his mom could keep anything from his father, so all he had to do was find him in the kitchen fixing a sandwich and say, “Can we pretend I told you about the whole Misha thing, instead of Mom?”

  “I’m sorry, who is that talking? Is it my son? I only have the one.” His back was to Max, and his shoulders were shaking. “I had another one, but I disowned him for deciding it was in any way acceptable to date a Bruin.” The laughter finally escaped, and Max’s dad turned around and held out his arms for a hug.

  Max made a mental note to never let Misha wear a Bruins shirt around his dad, and that was that.

  Chapter Twelve

  A few weeks after the New Year, Misha walked into the locker room to the sound of shouting. It immediately went quiet when he entered, which was suspicious. When the team argued about hockey, they just kept yelling when Misha came in the room. When it was about something else, they shut up like obstinate, angry little clams.

  “There is a problem?” Misha asked, feeling the beginnings of a headache. His migraines had been suspiciously absent of late, and their return was giving him the slightest hint of imminent disaster.

  Jakob had spent Christmas Day at Misha’s with Isaac Drake and a few others who hadn’t gone home for whatever reason, and he had been acting oddly ever since. In fact on Christmas, Misha went to refill his glass and came back to find Jakob hastily throwing on his coat and leaving with a barely muttered, “Thanks, Coach.” When Misha attempted to find out what the problem was, the temperamental goalie brushed past Misha into the kitchen, helped himself to Misha’s good vodka, and got so drunk he had to sleep on Misha’s couch.

  He was gone the next day, before Misha could ask him what happened or reprimand him for his poor alcohol etiquette. But whatever was going on between Drake and Jakob, it was clearly causing an issue in the locker room, and that was not acceptable.

  “You guys want to let me and Coach Samarin in on the problem, or should we all stand around and look at each other some more? Don’t know about you guys, but I’m hungry.”

  Max’s voice was warm enough to show he wasn’t angry, but firm enough to let them know he was serious. He was very good at that sort of thing, and Misha was relieved he was there to handle it. His approach would have been to stare at Jakob and Drake until they left, which would have solved nothing.

  “Jakob has a fucking problem with queers,” said Drake, and Misha felt his heart slam down into his stomach like a puck hitting hard in an empty net. Drake, his hair cut—and freshly colored blue—glared at Jakob across the locker room.

  Huxley groaned. “Fuck. What? Really? Jakob, man. Do not get Drake started on this, dude. We’ll never get out of here, an
d I want some dinner.”

  Misha tried and failed to find his words. All he could think about was the argument at Christmas that he had not witnessed, Max’s things in his house that Misha had not bothered to hide, and how clearly Jakob had learned that their coach was gay and—

  “Why would you be discussing this in the locker room?” Max asked, sounding completely reasonable, as if he had not been fucked, and quite thoroughly so, by the head coach mere hours before over the head coach’s desk in his office. “Every single one of you knows I don’t tolerate bullying of any kind, in here or on the ice. Neither does Coach Samarin.”

  “Tell fucking Jakob that,” Drake growled. “Fucking Polish prick.”

  “We don’t bully because people are from other—countries?” Max looked briefly at Misha, who nodded imperceptibly. He found Max’s complete lack of understanding about world geography both exasperating and endearing. “Yeah. So knock it off, Drake. You can’t get respect from people if they don’t respect you.”

  Misha saw it the moment it happened, the moment Isaac Drake lost some of that inner fire that kept him going through whatever personal tragedies he faced in his mind every day on the ice. “Never mind,” Drake muttered, his shoulders hunched.

  Max had said the wrong thing, and he and Misha both knew it. But Max was the epitome of indomitable, and he never gave up. “Drake, let’s go talk about this in the office. Just the two of us. Okay?”

  Misha winced before Max finished talking, because he knew that it was the wrong thing to say, even though he couldn’t say why, exactly. Drake spared a glance at Misha, and he looked like a helpless animal—something wild caught in a trap and terrified at suddenly finding itself in a cage.

  “I think we should make this clear,” Misha said, though he wanted to do nothing more than let Max handle it. “This is a locker room. We play hockey as a team. Yes? What you do outside with other people, it does not matter.”

  Jakob said something in Polish, perhaps unaware that Misha had picked up some Polish on his travels. He resisted the urge to cuff the younger man hard on the side of the head and ignored him.

  “Also, like, dude,” Shawn Murphy said, from somewhere behind Misha. “Everyone in the fucking ECHL knows Drake’s gay. And fuck you if you have a problem with it, because no one here does. So go join another fucking team. But good luck, because guess what, asshole? Gay people play hockey. Go the fuck back to Russia.”

  “Poland,” Jakob bit out.

  “Whatever,” said Murphy.

  Maybe it wasn’t a secret that Drake was gay, but Misha hadn’t known, and it was clear from Max’s expression he hadn’t either.

  “That is enough,” Misha said coldly. “Drake is your teammate and your captain, Jakob. That is all that matters in this locker room. My office. Now. The rest of you, get your skates on. Coach Ashford, lead the team in a bag skate until we are done here.”

  There was a hissing rumble of discontent as Misha consigned the already-tired team to the worst of all skating drills. If nothing else, it would at least focus all the team’s ire on Misha instead of giving the team a reason to hate one or both of their teammates.

  Max gave Misha a look that said, “Are you serious?” But Misha knew Max respected him and would do what he said. Max blew his whistle a bit too loudly. “You heard Coach. Get out there.” In a show of solidarity that would make him popular with the team and ensure Misha was giving him blowjobs every morning in the shower for a week, Max laced up his own skates.

  Misha took Jakob into his office, listened for two minutes as the kid stammered out something about religion and wrong and whatever-else nonsense. Then, in a cold voice, he said, “It does not matter. You will do your job or you will go home. This is your only choice. You either go put your skates on and do the drills with your teammates, or you leave this building and you never come back.”

  He held up a hand. “You may go and tell Belsey if you want. But Belsey is not the coach. I am. You can think what you want, but you will keep it to yourself.”

  Jakob did look just the slightest bit abashed, making Misha wonder if there was something else wrong that had nothing to do with Drake. If Drake’s sexuality was known to the team, it was hard to believe that Jakob had just developed a problem with it.

  Misha thought carefully. Of course he did not support Jakob’s views on homosexuality, and he would not allow anyone to be bullied or belittled for it on his team. But he did understand being a young man who was a stranger in a foreign country, and so he switched to Polish—also so his player would know he understood the language. “I know it is hard to be here. This country is not like what we are used to. It is like, sometimes having everything you know taken away at once. They do not tell you that the way you think is wrong, that the way you live is wrong, but the way they think, the way they live.... It seems as if that is what they are doing.”

  Jakob’s eyes were wide. He nodded. “Sometimes. Yes.”

  “Drake is gay. It has nothing to do with you. I will not have a locker room where someone is ashamed or feels they need to hide because of what they are. If you do not feel comfortable here, it is not because of who Drake chooses to spend his time with away from the ice. But I cannot help you if you insist that it is. Do you understand?”

  Jakob, to his credit, didn’t just agree right away. “I will try,” he said. “I feel stupid. That I did not know and everyone else did.”

  Misha hadn’t known either, but he didn’t say that. “It has nothing to do with this team, Jakob. That is what I am trying to tell you. Now put on your skates, join your teammates, and apologize to your captain. And keep your opinions to yourself. Is that clear?”

  Jakob didn’t look all too happy, but he nodded and left to put on his skates.

  Misha waited for a few minutes and then went out to the rink. He got death glares from every single player, and that was good. He also saw Jakob dry heaving, and Drake checking on him. They were probably plotting Misha’s death. Also a good sign.

  Misha blew his whistle, ignoring his sweaty, bright-eyed, very attractive, and furious assistant coach, who was probably going to torture him to death later in bed. Misha held back an evil smile and said, “Remember this the next time you think the answer to personal problems is to be dramatic in locker rooms.”

  “Fucking Russians. No wonder they’re always the bad guys,” Shawn Murphy wheezed as he went past Misha.

  Misha let that one go.

  “Yeah,” Max said, still breathing hard. “Fucking Russians.”

  Misha caught his eye and winked when he was sure no one could see.

  The week they played the Jacksonville Sea Storm at home, Isaac Drake stopped showing up to practice. When game day came around and there was still no sign of their blue-haired, angry young captain, Misha told Belsey that Drake had a family emergency and started Lathrop in net.

  The game wasn’t the one-sided affair it had been earlier that season. The Spitfires held their own but still lost, 4-2, and it was clear the team was disappointed. They were also confused because their goalie wasn’t there, and Misha knew they all thought they might have won if Drake hadn’t vanished. Lathrop felt terrible about the game, and it made for a quiet locker room after it was over.

  Drake was still a no-show the following week at practice. That’s when Huxley and Murphy asked to speak to Misha in his office, clearly worried. They wanted to convince Misha not to kick Drake off the team. They thought something was wrong.

  “He hasn’t been home in days, Coach,” Huxley said, shuffling his feet nervously in front of Misha’s desk. “This guy showed up at our apartment before the Jacksonville game looking for him, and when I told Drake, he flipped the fuck out.”

  “I still can’t believe he missed the game against the Storm. He was so fucking ready for that, man. I mean, Coach,” Murph amended quickly. “He also wants to bang Hunter—the Storm’s goalie—’cause he’s bi. Hunter, I mean. Drake’s just regular gay.”

  “Would you shut up?” Hu
xley glared at his friend. “Coach doesn’t want to hear that shit.”

  “Remember what Drake said, though? That we shouldn’t not talk about him macking on dudes just ’cause they were dudes instead of chicks?”

  “He didn’t mean to talk about him macking on dudes in front of Coach, moron.” Hux hit Murph in the arm. “And Hunter has a boyfriend. Remember? I fought him last year. Ethan Kennedy.”

  Misha cleared his throat. “Is the man who showed up looking for Drake a boyfriend of his?” He felt strange using the word boyfriend, even when it came to Max. He felt a thousand years older than his players on a good day, and the word seemed so juvenile.

  “No way,” Hux replied confidently. “This guy was, like, sweaty and creepy. That’s totally not Drake’s type.”

  “He likes ’em pretty,” Murph piped up. “Like Hunter. Or Coach Ashford.”

  “Dude,” Hux said. He glared. “Seriously?”

  Murphy looked nervously at Huxley and then apparently decided to be quiet.

  “We’re worried about him,” Hux continued as Misha digested the information that Drake had a crush on Max. At least their goalie had good taste. “And he loves this team, Coach. I’ve never seen him so fired up about winning before. I know he wouldn’t do anything to fuck up his career, so something’s gotta be going on.”

  “Do you have any idea where Drake is?” Misha asked. “Could he have gone to visit family?”

  “Yeah. No,” Huxley said, shaking his head. “They threw him out when he was seventeen for being gay.”

  “And you’re sure he’s not seeing anyone?”

  “He was kinda seeing this guy in Asheville last year for a hot minute,” said Huxley. “But Drake doesn’t have a car, so I don’t know how he’d get there.”

  “You mean that guy Xavier who plays for the Ravens?” Murphy snorted. “He’s like, totally in the closet. You know Drake isn’t into that shit.” He too looked worried. “Drake has mad respect for you, Coach Samarin. If anyone can get him to stop being a fuckhead, it’s you.”